Dead Waters - Anton Strout [26]
“Dammit, boy,” the Inspectre blustered, standing up. He came out from behind his desk, crossed over to me, and snatched the folder from my hand. “You mean to tell me you’ve been back long enough to write out a case file and didn’t think to come see me first?”
I stepped back, a little surprised by the anger in the Inspectre’s voice. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just thought . . .”
The Inspectre turned away from me and went back to his desk. He threw the folder down, not even bothering to look at it. He breathed in like he was getting ready to yell, but stopped himself. He slid his thumb and index finger under his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“Forgive me,” he said, softening. “Perhaps I didn’t make my request clear enough for urgency in this matter.”
“I was just following standard protocol . . .”
“Of course you were,” he said, waving my words away with his hand. “Bully for you. I trust you have something to report. . . ?”
“Yes,” I said. “My report is . . . in my report.” I pointed at the folder on the desk.
The Inspectre put his hand on it, but made no effort to open it. “I think I would prefer to hear it from you, my boy.”
For the first time I noticed the deep weariness on his face. His eyes were heavier than usual, full of exhaustion.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Of course. When we found Professor Redfield’s body . . .”
The Inspectre raised his hand off the folder in front of him. “Spare me the more gruesome details, my boy. Friends from long ago haunt you the most if you know too many particulars about their passing.”
“Sorry,” I said, picking up the folder and searching my papers for what should and shouldn’t be said.
“No need for apologies,” the Inspectre said, sounding sad this time. “It’s something they simply don’t prepare you for in what passes for training around here.”
I had written so much down, I didn’t know where to start editing, so I closed the folder. “One thing is for sure, sir. Mason Redfield’s death was not of natural causes.” I tried to imagine what it would be like to drown from the inside out like that, but couldn’t. “There were no signs that he struggled. He looked almost . . . peaceful.”
“Good,” the Inspectre said, solemn. He took off his glasses. “That is something. It may seem like a small thing to you, Simon, but when you get to be my age, there is a . . . comfort, I suppose, in the thought of dying peacefully. Truth be told, I never expected to make it past fifty. Then again, neither did Mason.”
Curiosity got the better of me. “You mentioned earlier tonight that the professor was a friend of yours . . . ?”
The Inspectre stood and turned to the display case behind him that took up most of the wall. It was filled with books as well as a few ornamental museum pieces scattered among the shelves. His hand rose, gently gliding along the edge of the top of it. It came to rest on a length of dark polished wood with a thin band of tarnished copper near one end of it. A walking stick. He pulled it down, held it carefully in both hands, and stared down at it, fixated.
“He was more than just a friend,” the Inspectre said. “He was my first partner in the Fraternal Order of Goodness, our older brotherhood of investigators which predates the government-run Department of Extraordinary Affairs by several hundred years.” He tossed the cane to me. “See for yourself, my boy.”
I caught it with both hands and sat myself down in one of the chairs on the other side of the Inspectre’s desk, inspecting the cane as I did so. Along the metal band read the word DAMOCLES. The object crackled with energy in my hands, almost eager to reveal itself to my power like a child wanting to tell about his day at school. There was rich history in this object. With that much power ready to release, sinking into the chair was my best option. I wanted to use my psychometry on the cane, but I didn’t want to fall over from blood-sugar depletion from such a heavily charged object.
I pressed my power into the cane and my mind flashed back through time. It was nighttime in an old graveyard somewhere along the East